


Apple Pie

by Anythingtoasted



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Charming B&B, Fluff, M/M, Post-Series, Vermont Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-31
Updated: 2012-12-31
Packaged: 2017-11-23 01:33:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/616594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anythingtoasted/pseuds/Anythingtoasted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So, uh. What now?” He asked them both, and whereas Sam’s face was blank, and the word ‘Amelia’ was clearly just behind his teeth, Castiel spoke up immediately. </p>
<p>“I think we should revisit your ‘Charming B&B’ idea.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Apple Pie

**Author's Note:**

> i apologise in advance for being a fucking sap, but honestly, the writers were BEGGING for this to be done.

About 0.2 seconds after they closed the door to hell, Castiel turned to look at him.

The place was  in ruins, all of them bloodied and bruised, but Castiel walked over to the Winchesters in that curious way that he so often did, and touched the brothers gently on the forehead, restoring them as if it was nothing. He smiled at them, at Dean in particular, and put his hands in his pockets. Dean dragged himself to his feet and looked back at him, not smiling – not yet – almost unable to believe it was really over.

“So, uh. What now?” He asked them both, and whereas Sam’s face was blank, and the word ‘Amelia’ was clearly just behind his teeth, Castiel spoke up immediately.

“I think we should revisit your ‘Charming B&B’ idea.”

...

It had been a joke. Dean was 100% positive he was joking when he’d suggested, frigging months ago, that they open a B&B (and he was pretty sure he’d only meant Castiel, as well), but for some reason the angel had a selective understanding of when he was being facetious, had taken him seriously, and now somehow he was _house hunting_ in Vermont. The whole thing was deeply, desperately weird.

The angel in question elbowed him sharply, raising him from his confused stupor. “Dean? What do you think?”

“Huh?” he looked around. The place was nice, sure. Big. Not very clean, and probably in need of repair, but he could probably do it up, given the time – not that it really mattered, because he _wasn’t going to buy it._ He stared at Castiel dumbly, wondering if Angel Mojo was capable of making him a middle-aged housewife instead of Dean Winchester, Bad Ass Hunter. Weirder things had happened. “Isn’t it a little pricey?” The words came out without his permission, and he almost clapped a hand over his mouth. The woman (little lady, pretty cute, short black hair) showing them around just grinned at him.

“That’s the benefit to saving the world, honey. You don’t need to worry about that sort of thing.” She patted his arm, and then turned to Castiel. “So you’ll take it?”

The angel nodded, held out his hand for her clipboard, which she passed over with a flourish and a smile as Dean just stared at them, mouth agape. “What’s that?” the realtor turned her blinding smile on him.

“The contract. No down payment necessary. Consider it a… gift. From us to you. For stopping that whole… demon thing.” She grinned wider, like it was possible, and Dean stared at her blankly, then looked to Castiel for confirmation. The angel raised his head from signing along the dotted line, and nodded curtly at him, once, before he passed the clipboard to Dean, along with a pen.  His skin prickled slightly at ‘ _that whole demon thing’._ It was unnerving to hear someone trivialize his whole life in a single sentence, but he swallowed his objection, pressured by the heat of Castiel’s gaze on the side of his face.  The angel leaned close, and jabbed at the paper.

“You sign here and here.” He said, pointing, and Dean looked at him, dazed. Castiel’s expression turned confused. “What’s the matter?”

“I – do I have to do this?”

“We need two people to co-sign.”  The realtor chirped helpfully, and Dean restrained himself from shooting her a Look. He turned to Castiel.

“So you can’t do this without me?”

“I could find someone else to sign, I suppose. I could ask Sam.”

Dean shook his head, catching the puzzled expression on Castiel’s face. What was the harm? It was free, and it wasn’t like it really _meant_ anything, it was just a big house. Nothing else. He shrugged, and signed, and had the clipboard tugged from his hands before he even finished the ‘r’ in ‘Winchester’.

“Thankyou!” The realtor grinned at them both, looking from Castiel, who was smiling gently at her, to Dean, who was still not entirely sure he was awake. She tore off the back of the form. “This is your copy – and that’s it! It’s yours!” She grinned, and patted Dean on the arm, looking unblinkingly into his eyes, her expression simpering. “I’m sure you’ll both be very happy here.”

Dean stuttered around _wait a fucking second_ but the words died on his tongue, and besides, she had already walked away, her little heels clicking on the scuffed up floors, leaving him alone with the angel in this huge, echoing building which, apparently, was now _theirs._ He looked at the angel, utterly bewildered. “Did we just _buy_ a _hotel?”_

Castiel raised an eyebrow at him. “No, Dean.” He said, very seriously. “It’s only a bed and breakfast.”

...

“Where should I put these?”

Dean repressed the curl of envy that went through his gut when Sam and Amelia showed up on his ( _Their_ ) doorstep, laden with materials to fix the place up. “Just dump it on the ground. There’s nowhere better.” Amelia, to her credit, hung back only briefly before she walked forward, and shook his hand, looking him straight in the eyes.

“Hey, Dean.” She said, more fiercely confident than anything else. He’d met her a couple of times before but never properly – there were always more pressing things at hand – but now there was no apocalypse, no demons breathing down his neck, no leviathan, no heavenly assholes up his butt. Instead there was just him, and his brother, and …whatever the hell Castiel was these days. And there was also Amelia.

“Hey.” He said, trying not to be rude but desperately uncomfortable. He could see Sam glaring at him from behind her, and he sighed, and sucked in his pride. “You, uh, have a good drive up?” Sam’s look grew no more intense, but god _damn it_ he was trying. Amelia visibly relaxed, if only a little. She turned and started to unpack the boxes – paint, rollers, plaster for the cracks, a couple of paintbrushes, some electrical stuff Dean had asked for, just minor tweaks the place needed.

“It was fine.” She smiled at him, tentatively, and he smiled back, though it was more of a grimace. He thought maybe he could like her – in a different time, a different place. He’d liked Jess well enough, he thought, but then – he’d never really known her. And everyone else Sam had been with was either Ruby – and god, that was a nightmare he’d rather not consider again – or someone who hadn’t stuck around. It seemed, however, that Amelia was pretty permanent. She knew about all his shit now, after all, and she still hadn’t run for the hills screaming. That was a point in her favour.

 He walked over to the two of them, where they were pulling things out of the boxes and spreading them on the floor. He crouched next to Amelia and started picking through what they’d brought; partly to inspect it, partly because he felt weird with nothing in his hands.

“How’s it been, anyway?” Sam asked him, and he looked up.

“I dunno. Pretty good. It’s a nice place. Just needs a lick of paint, and some of the electrics are a little screwy. Nothing we can’t handle.”

Sam shook his head. “No, I mean – with you and Cas.”

Dean paused, a roller in his hand. “Uh.” He shrugged. What was there to tell? Cas was – _Cas._ He was a little weird, and he didn’t sleep (apart from when you got him drunk, apparently, and _wow_ that had been an expensive night, but worth it just to hear him singing Enochian ritual songs in his deep, guttural voice), so he pretty much worked on the place all day and all night, but other than that he was just _Cas,_ same as always, maybe with more of a sense of humour than when they’d first met. At that moment he was upstairs somewhere, plastering over some of the cracks in the walls. “He’s – fine, I guess? He’s the same.” Sam fixed him with a familiar look, one that Dean knew meant _you’re hiding something_ but fuck knew what Sam thought he was lying about, this time.

“Okay.” Sam said, suspicion in his voice, the syllables drawn out. Amelia pointedly avoided Dean's eye.

“Okay.” He said back, curt, and put the roller down. “You want the grand tour? We’ve done a good bit since you were last up here.”

Sam shrugged, still looking slightly dubious, and he and Amelia stood. “Sure.”

There wasn’t much to show; there was water damage in the entrance hall, and the kitchen’s fixtures needed re-doing if Cas was ever going to be able to cook anything. The bedrooms were cracked but otherwise fine; the plumbing needed some re-arranging, some modernising, but Dean thought he could do it with a couple of books from the library, no big. He led them through the downstairs rooms, gesturing at the walls – where Cas had started painting the hall, where the skirting boards weren’t yet finished, but they would be. He went up the stairs and called for Cas, and the angel appeared, though by leaning around a doorway, instead of just popping into existence. He smiled when he saw Sam and Amelia, and there was plaster in his hair, making it stick up at even odder angles than usual, white flecks on black .

 “Hello, Sam.” He nodded at him, then at the woman beside him. “Amelia.” His contact with Amelia before closing the Door had been even briefer than Dean’s, but he coped a lot better – he just smiled, nodded at them both, then made as if to walk back into the bedroom he was working on. Dean stopped him, walked over and touched his arm briefly.

“You wanna show them the bedrooms? I’m gonna go down and have a look at the boiler again.”

The angel looked surprised, but nodded amiably. “Of course.” He turned to Amelia and she followed him into the room, drawing level with the angel as she went, asking questions. She turned to Sam,  hanging back, and the look that passed between them was obviously one they’d practiced. Dean stood on the stairs, waiting, aware that Sam was going to talk to him whether he liked it or not.

“Please try to make this work.” Sam barrelled in, voice pitched low so that the other two wouldn’t hear (although Cas inevitably would). Sam stood above him at the top of the stairs, and Dean actively repressed the urge to turn and walk away – go back downstairs and deal with the water pressure, make it so there was hot water again, simple and tangible and nothing like this _mess._ “I love her, Dean, and I love you, too. Please at least – _try.”_

Dean drummed his fingers on the banister. “I’m trying.” He said, and Sam winced.

“Could you try a little harder, maybe?” he bit back a sigh, looked away, looked back. “Come for dinner with us tonight. Bring Cas, if you want.”

The idea of bringing Cas to a restaurant was so funny that Dean almost didn’t answer the question. “Fine. No Cas, though. He’s busy.”

Sam nodded quickly. “Cool.” Obviously grabbing at whatever foothold Dean would afford him, he grinned hopefully and all but tripped down the stairs on his long legs to awkwardly pull Dean into a hug. “Thanks, Dean. It’ll be fun. I promise.” He pulled back and Dean eyed him sarcastically, then drew out of his grip.

“Yeah, alright, jolly green. Obviously she’s doing _something_ to make you come over all… mushy.”

Sam just grinned at him and went back up the stairs, following after his girlfriend. Dean stood there for a minute, but only a minute, before he went downstairs to see if he could have a hot shower sometime soon.

...

He was going through the blueprints, looking for some kind of map of the plumbing, when he came across the contract, and felt his stomach clench.

He didn’t realise how long he’d been looking at it until Castiel came downstairs, rubbing at his hands with a rag, his trenchcoat somewhere else, wearing only his suit pants and shirt, the tie hanging undone around his neck and his sleeves rolled up. Dean was sat indian-style in the middle of the room, all the papers and plans for the house spread around him, the carbon copy of the contract clutched in his hand. He looked up, and Castiel looked back at him, face suddenly worried.

“What’s wrong?”

Dean just opened his mouth for a second, then looked back at the paper. “Castiel Winchester.” He said, because those were the only words that had been in his head, for a while. Castiel didn’t really react.

“I thought it would be more appropriate for me to give a second name.” He paused. “And I’ve never been part of any family but yours.”

Dean looked at him silently. He was overreacting, he knew, but the sight of those words – the angel wrote beautifully as well, like someone had trained him, all curves and easy slopes, each crest of a letter leading gently to the other, almost calligraphic in its grace – had thrown him for a loop. He swallowed.

“What are we doing here, Cas?” the question had been on his lips for a long time – maybe since before this whole thing began – and Sam had asked it enough times, and gotten no answer beyond a shrug, or deflection. The angel picked absently at where paint had dried on his wrist, still looking at Dean.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean. What – what does _this_ mean? What are we trying to do?”

Castiel stared at him like he was being an idiot. “Something peaceful. Something good.” He paused. “I’ve appreciated your help, Dean.”

“Are you going to stay?” Dean asked him, surprising himself, and the angel still looked perplexed as he nodded.

“Of course.”

“For how long?”

“For as long as you’re still here.” He said, assured, and seemed satisfied that the conversation was over. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

Dean nodded dully, and watched him leave the room, as calm as he had entered it. He remembered, of course, checking Cas into the hospital – _Castiel Winchester –_ and the same spike of shame and worry had gone through his gut then, too, then and every time he saw the thin strip of plastic wrapped around his wrist. Something sweeter was in the curls and waves of Castiel’s signature, though; something soft and warm that pulsed in his gut, that came back to him whenever he turned his head and the angel was there, on a step-ladder, painting the ceiling, or puzzling over how to fix the leaks in the roof. He swallowed when Castiel brought him a mug of coffee, remembering how he liked it, holding one for himself (tea, probably; coffee was too bitter for the angel’s taste). “Thanks.” He said, still holding the contract in one hand. Castiel sat down beside him, mug held between his hands, steaming softly in the cold air.

“It’s really no problem at all.”

...

Sometimes he left.

They didn’t have a name for the place, at the time – Cas hadn’t asked, and since it would still be a good few months before it was even _nearly_ ready to open, Dean wasn’t all that bothered about putting up a plaque, officially. What _was_ starting to play on his nerves was that when he left somewhere else – Sam and Amelia’s, a bar, anywhere, really – his head said _I’m going home,_ even though his mouth didn’t.

He thought it was probably the familiarity that did it. But for what they changed themselves, the house – or the Inn, or whatever – stayed the same, and so, thankfully, did Castiel. Dean could count on pulling into the driveway, walking into the house and finding the angel patching something, looking at blueprints, maybe outside peering at the window-boxes and complaining about the encroaching cold, expression grumpy until he lifted his head, and saw Dean, and smiled.

It had been two weeks since he’d seen the place, in the middle of December, and the snow was piling up on all sides, his wheels skidding on the road as he drove up to the house. He found himself strangely agitated as he drove, a sensation that only went away when he finally pulled up, and got out of the car. Castiel wasn’t outside, but that was no surprise – the drifts of snow were building, fast, and there was already a thick blanket of snow covering the low-slung roof of the Inn. He hoped distantly that the roof would hold, and ducked through the front door – it swung open easily. Castiel wasn’t exactly worried about being robbed, after all. Anyone who tried to steal from him would get a lot more than they bargained for.

He rapped his knuckles on the nearest wall. “Cas?” there was no reply, for a second or so, and then his voice came from the kitchen.

“Dean?” Dean followed the sound, and realised that not only was the place _warm –_ seemed like he’d done a better job on the heating than he’d thought – but it smelled different, not like wood and paint, but like both of those things and something else, too, underneath it.

“Are you _cooking?_ ”

The angel turned to him from the stove, and – yeah. That was what he was doing. He shrugged, turning his eyes only briefly to Dean – so much for an enthusiastic welcome – and then back to the pan he was stirring. He dabbed at it with the long-handled wooden spoon he was holding, and for a moment Dean just watched him – but for the measured way that he moved, he looked like just – well, just like a _guy._ Just some guy, making what smelled like tomato soup, in his kitchen. Not an angel of the lord at all. There were flecks of red on Castiel’s tie where the soup had spat, and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows again.

 He turned, and Dean realised he had an apron, folded in half, tied around his waist. He couldn’t _not_ laugh, as he walked over and peered into the pan. Castiel looked at him, aware that he was being mocked, but just said “Taste this. I don’t know how it’s supposed to taste.” He offered the spoon and Dean, not wanting to further reinforce this decidedly _domestic_ scene, swiped a finger through the red liquid instead of putting the spoon in his mouth. He put the finger in his mouth, instead, Castiel’s eyes trained emphatically on it as he did.

“S’okay, I guess.” He turned to look into the pan again, and edged Castiel out of the way with his shoulder. “Maybe needs some salt.” They had plenty of _that,_ so it wouldn’t be a problem. Castiel frowned.

“The recipe didn’t mention salt.”

Dean laughed. “You don’t always have to do exactly what it says.”

Castiel frowned at him, and rolled his sleeves up tighter where they’d slipped. “There’s a recipe for a _reason.”_

Dean repressed a snigger. He hadn't changed all _that_ much, even in six years. “How come you’re cooking, anyway?”

Castiel shrugged. “I thought it might be a skill that came in useful.”

“You don’t even _eat_.”

“I indulge, every now and then.” He smiled. Dean opened the cabinets in the kitchen and pulled out the salt; he went as if to add it when Castiel’s hand clasped his wrist from behind, stopping him. “It’s fine, Dean.”

Dean turned to look back at him, wrist still in his grip, and laughed at the serious expression on the angel’s face. “Alright! Fine. Fine. It’d taste better if you did, though.”

Castiel grumbled something, possibly something in Enochian about meddling humans and their disregard for the rules. “Be that as it may...” He let go of his wrist, but Dean was still acutely aware that the angel was standing closer even than usual behind him, breath heating the back of his neck, the angel’s face very, very close to his jaw. He turned back again, which was a mistake, because his nose almost collided with Castiel’s.

“Could you, uh, back up a little, there?”

Castiel moved away in an instant. “Sorry.” He looked pointedly at the stove. “Could I get back to what I was doing?”

Dean moved so he wasn’t blocking the stove anymore, but hung around, leaning on the kitchen counter. “Why tomato soup?” he asked, genuinely interested, and considered it a sign of growth when Castiel added salt and he said nothing.

The angel shrugged slightly, lifting his shoulder and then letting it drop. “It seemed easy, and I grew tomatoes.”

“You grew them?”

Castiel nodded, eyes on the soup.

“In this weather?”

The angel looked at him. “I grew them _inside_.”

“Huh.” He nodded, impressed. “Cool.” Castiel stirred the soup a little more, then held out the spoon to him again.

“What about now?”

He swiped a finger through it again, and tasted it, then nodded. “Better.” He grinned, and Castiel – he could almost swear – actually rolled his eyes. He let a lull wash over them before he spoke again. “So did you miss me?”

Castiel turned the burner on the stovetop down, then opened the cabinets and pulled out bowls, one each. Dean didn’t even know they _had_ bowls. “It’s strange without you in the house.” Castiel said, softly, and started spooning soup into the bowls. “Quiet.”

“Good quiet?”

“Just… quiet.” He said, and handed the bowl over to Dean, taking one for himself. Dean knew he wouldn’t finish it, knew it was more for the sensation of eating, of having eaten, than any need to eat. “I confess I don’t enjoy the silence like I used to.”

“I’ve grown on you, huh?”

“It’s always quiet in heaven.” Castiel said, eyes far away, and then locking on Dean’s.

Dean blew on the soup, took a spoon gratefully from Castiel when he passed it over, and cleared his throat. “So you mean it? About not going back?”

“For now, yes.” He shoved the spoon in his mouth, and Dean grinned, watching. “I’m going to live a long time. I see no reason in rushing anything.”

“You can go back a little, if you want, man. I don’t want to stop you.”

“I don’t want to go.”  Castiel said.

“Look, Cas, I just- about this whole… _Winchester_ thing-“

“It was a formality, Dean.” Castiel said quickly. “Don’t attribute more meaning to it than necessary.”

“No, I mean – of course you’re like family to me, man, we’ve been through enough –  It’s just that the last thing anyone needs is to be one of _us_. Me and Sam are fucked up, you know that better than anyone.”

Castiel hummed in disagreement. “I don’t think so. You and Sam have been better lately. You just spent the week with them, after all. You and Amelia are talking.”

“I guess.” He conceded. “Things have been different.” He said, realising for the first time that it was true. There was still a tension there, a hesitancy, but they weren’t shouting anymore, weren’t leaving each other. Sam would call every week, often more, and ask about the house, about Cas (though there was never much to say about the angel; he stayed the same). Dean would ask about Amelia, at first because he felt obligated, now because he wanted to know. She was a good girl; she understood. Dean thought, sometimes (just a little) that she even reminded him of Mom. Whether that was a good thing, or not, he didn’t know. “Winchester curse, though.” He finished lamely, hardly believing the words himself, and Castiel looked contemptuous.

“Not everything ends in tragedy.” He told him, nose wrinkled. “Unless you convince it to.”

“You think I’m ‘convincing it to’?” He said, mildly offended, and Castiel looked at him sadly.

“I think you need to remember that you did a good thing, Dean. You – and your brother - closed the door to hell. You saved a lot of lives.”

Dean snorted. “Oh yeah. That.” The soup in his hands was going cold; he spooned some into his mouth, if only not to miss it before it cooled completely. It was good, actually, considering.

“Some might even call you a hero.” Castiel said mildly, sipping his soup straight from the bowl, and when Dean caught his eye, he smirked.

...

He was chipping away at the wood on the doorframe with a screwdriver, wobbling on a stepladder, when Castiel tried to come through the doorway and almost knocked him over. He ducked Dean’s flailing arms as he regained his balance, and peered owlishly at what Dean was doing to the doorframe.

“Devil’s traps?”

“Other stuff, too.”

“Wise.” Castiel said, and Dean watched as he traced the wood of the door with his hands; his fingers dipped into the grooves that Dean had carved there, the sigils and symbols, the protection spells, the charms for good luck, which Dean had added just on the off chance that they might work. He traced each line with reverence, softly, eyes open and watching his own hand as he brushed the pads of his fingers against the frame. The wood was soft from handprints that had hung onto it before them, the sigils new-cut but the wood itself smooth and shiny, dark where skin had worn it beautiful.

Castiel touched one sigil, in particular, and looked up at him. “My name.” he said, and Dean nodded.

“There’s stuff there to keep your family out, too. Didn’t want you getting the same treatment.”

“It says, ‘Welcome, Castiel’.” The angel smiled at the doorframe, at the carefully carved symbol under his hand. “It’s very well done.”

“Yeah, well. It had to be right.” He teetered on the ladder, the half-finished demon warding sigil almost forgotten when Castiel looked up at him, and gestured for the screwdriver. Dean handed it to him wordlessly, and the angel immediately dug the screwdriver into a place where the wood was blank, on the opposite side to his name. He carved the symbol quickly – dug the flat metal in, no trouble, and scraped the symbol in almost one line, daubing it like a painter would with a brush. It was small, delicate and neater than all Dean’s other attempts – carved deeper, too. Castiel passed the screwdriver back.

“What does that mean?” Dean asked him. He thought for a wild, weird moment that it might be _his_ name; that Castiel might have carved _Welcome, Dean,_ but the angel touched the symbol with his fingertips.

“It means ‘Home’.” He said, and then he moved away; went into the kitchen to finish painting the counters.

…

Predictably, once they put the bar in and got a license, the hunters started showing up.

It was a slow trickle at first; a couple of guys from the ‘old days’ got wind of what Dean and his brother and the angel had done, and went up out of curiosity more than anything – _Dean Winchester,_ in frigging _Vermont._ For some, it had to be seen to be believed.

Garth was the first, and Dean greeted him with a hug on the doorstep, pleased to see him. They talked about Bobby, and Sam, and Amelia, and Garth eventually coerced Castiel into telling them about his wild days as a foot soldier (who knew Noah liked to party?), before passing out by the fireplace they’d just put in.

After Garth there came others – some on ‘pilgrimages’, who Dean tended not to appreciate so much, not being one to play the hero, no matter what Castiel said. He settled on tending bar, and left Castiel to deal with those; to dissuade them from asking personal questions with his large, blue eyes and his distant, placative smiles.

Others came because they were friends.

Some came to say thank you.

These were the ones who bought drinks, who persuaded Dean to drink, too – wise, old-eyed girls with long legs and easy smiles, girls like Pamela and Jo, who made Dean’s heart twist with pleasure when they swapped banter with him over the bar. Older guys with the world firmly under their feet, guys who had sons and daughters in different states, or wished they did. Guys who slapped Dean and Castiel on the back, and told stupid, unfunny jokes.

And in all this buzz, somewhere in the midst of it – in between Sam’s visits, between Sam asking him to be his best man – somewhere, Dean was finding something like peace.

He was cleaning glasses one night – enjoyed the mechanics of it, doing things with his hands, making what was soiled clean again – and one of the hunters, a younger woman, maybe twenty five, twenty six years old, leaned over the bar and touched his arm. He smiled at her as a reflex; she’d been flirting all night, just casual stuff, asking him about hunts, nothing too personal or strange. She was a well-wisher, but not a fan, she said, and when she touched his arm he was warmed by the gesture.

Castiel shuffled into the bar behind him and caught Dean’s eye. He gestured with his head at the fireplace, where Sam had his arm around Amelia and she was laughing, telling a group of hunters about the whole clown-thing that’d gone down at Plucky Pennywhistle’s, moving his big hands in wide, enthusiastic gestures. Dean laughed – partly because Sam was making an ass of himself and he could enjoy it tomorrow, partly because he hadn’t seen his brother enjoy himself like that in a long, long time, and every day it seemed to get more and more likely that he’d smile. The angel bustled past him, plates and glasses in his arms; he dumped them into the sink and Dean sighed overemphatically.

“For _me?”_ he said, pressing a palm to his heart, and Castiel shuffled past him again to get out from behind the bar.

“I’ll come and help you in a moment.”

“You’d better.” He tried half-heartedly to trip Castiel on his way past, and the angel sidestepped him deftly with a low chuckle, as he went to rejoin the others.

The hunter in front of him had withdrawn her hand, and she was looking at him now with a wry smile, one eyebrow lifted. “Wow.” She muttered, her tone teasing. She leaned her chin on her hand. “So you’re not _entirely_ what they say you are.”

Dean finished the glass he’d been holding and put it on the drying rack, then picked up another. “Yeah? What do they say I am?”

“Killer.” She said, voice on the edge of flirtatious, and he tried for faux modesty when he nodded. “Notorious.” She said, and he nodded again, in the same way. “Ladies man, though…” she trailed off and looked pointedly where Castiel had gone. Dean laughed at her.

“What makes you think it isn’t true? You don’t even know me.”

“I don’t have to.” She sighed heavily, but there was humour in it. “If there’s one thing I can’t compete with, it’s a fuckin’ angel.” She put her drink down, stood up, sighed melodramatically again, and then she was gone, off to sit with the other hunters, the ones half-listening to Sam, leaving Dean with the dishes and a coiling sensation in his gut that had nothing do with Sam telling – _very loudly –_ about that _one time_ with the lederhosen and that weird movie-shapeshifter dude.  Sam’s focus seemed to be on the lederhosen, though, because people kept glancing at the bar and fucking giggling.

Even Castiel was listening, rapt, and he looked up at Dean, just once, from where he was sitting – pride of place, Dean noted, in the corner next to Sam and Amelia, like he really _was_ a Winchester, and he had been all along.

 He looked at Dean and suddenly all of it made sense – the fucking inn, the cooking, the way he felt when he came back, like it was coming _home._ Why Castiel would stay with him _as long as he’s here_ , not because he had to but because he fucking _wanted to._

He was such a fucking idiot.

He kept on with the glasses, though – listening half-heartedly, and muttering curses at Sam as he continued to go through the register of their most embarrassing, fucking ridiculous experiences one by one. He washed and dried half the pile before Castiel came wandering up to see him again, to stand beside him and help dry. The bar was clear, Sam’s ‘insider perspective’ on the famous Winchester Gospel obviously too much of a temptation for everyone else to miss. Considering they were hunters, and it was a fucking _bar,_ they were paying Sam a huge compliment. Castiel took the wet glasses from his hands, dried them, and placed them on the rack. When he spoke it was hushed, mindful of the attraction not far across the room, obviously not wanting to disturb the peace.

“I wasn’t aware that I missed so much in the year that we met.”

Dean snorted. “You were there for the important stuff.”

“I wish I’d seen more of your brother… like this.” He said, watching Sam gesture wide with his hands and then collapse into laughter, whilst Amelia shielded her eyes from him with a hand, pretending embarrassment.

Dean followed his gaze. “You and me both, man. Things weren’t exactly easy then.” He shrugged, hands in the soapy water, feeling around for more shot glasses amidst the bubbles. “Or after.”

“He seems very happy now.”

“Yeah. He does.” He was glad for it, too. He and Sam still fought, but he was looking forward to the wedding, to his brother getting what he wanted, for once. That was enough to keep him cheerful. He glanced at Castiel fully, for the first time since the angel had joined him by the sink. The words were clear in his mind, thick and heavy on his tongue, but they came out, nonetheless. “I’m happy too.”

“So am I.” But Castiel looked thrilled, and Dean felt a rush of guilt and pleasure, one because Castiel hadn’t known it all along; the other because he was smiling, and _god,_ he did that a lot, these days.

They were different people, all of them, and Dean found that his words were true. He was happy. More than that, he was at _peace,_ even though sometimes he had dark days; even though he knew he’d never really stop having them. When it was good, it was really fucking _good,_ and right now he was warm, he had his brother in the room, _laughing,_ with a cute girl by his side, and at Dean’s elbow, as usual, was the angel. So familiar that Dean could hardly imagine being without him.

Eventually Sam started falling asleep, and the hunters lost interest. Amelia walked him up to bed, his hulking arm over her shoulders, she stumbling a little too, and looking to Castiel and Dean helplessly under his weight. Dean left the sink to go help drag his brother upstairs, (Sam was slurring _Dead or Alive_ by Bon Jovi under his breath, and Dean could barely stop laughing). Once he’d let Sam flop down on one of the double beds he and Cas (mostly Cas) had built, and had apologised to Amelia (though not without reminding her not to take advantage of his poor baby brother in this state – she pushed him forcibly out of the room), the entrance hall was all but empty.

 All that was left was Castiel, still cleaning and drying the last of the glasses, and a couple of sleepy stragglers dozing by the fire.

He went over because something was burning in him, something he hadn’t felt in a really fucking long time. He ducked under the partition, stood next to Cas whilst he finished drying, and he dried his hands, too. Dean said, “You know what, apart from Sammy, I think this fucking dump is the best thing that ever happened to me.”, not looking at the angel because he _couldn’t,_ and Castiel reached for his wrist like he knew;  held it loosely. He opened his mouth like he was going to say something, then shook his head like he knew that, too – he didn’t need to say anything. He’d said enough – with _home_ on the door, with soup and with laughter, with the way he made this place somewhere Dean wanted – maybe even _needed_ to be.

Instead Dean turned his wrist in Castiel’s loose grip, and took the angel’s hand – took his other, too, still damp and wrinkled from dishwater, and he pushed, just gently. Castiel went.

He leaned forward and the moment before – the one just teetering on the edge, where Castiel smiled and the lines between his eyes read, _do it –_ that was Dean’s favourite, second only to what came next, when he leaned just that last bit forward and kissed him.

He felt Castiel close his eyes, lashes on his cheeks; felt him open his mouth against Dean’s, languid and slow. It was less like a waterfall than an overflow, a trickle that was building somewhere just to the left, in his chest.

He pulled back and Castiel’s eyes were still closed; he opened them and Dean saw _stars._

“Fuck.” There was nothing else he could say.

“Me, too.” Castiel said, breathless and cocky and _fuck,_ again, how could he not have known?

“Good.” He said, clipped, but leaned in again; their hands clasped together, Castiel pressed against the bar, the floor they’d varnished side-by-side beneath their feet.

...

“Amelia always said your story was pretty, uh – _romantic.”_ Sam shrugged, looking from Dean to Castiel, then waving it away with a hand. “I guess I just never really noticed before.”

Dean balked at the word _romantic,_ but let it slide.

They stood – the four of them – outside the Inn, on a fucking freezing January day.

It was finally finished.

The outside was painted, looked like new; they’d fixed the cracks in the roof, the leaks in the pipes. They’d repainted and re-repainted, varnished everything in sight, carved sigils and symbols into every inconspicuous surface. They’d packed salt into the walls, blessed the boiler; they’d fixed the squeaky hinges on the doors, replaced the rotting window-frames. Castiel had flowerpots in the house, and was planning window-boxes for the summertime, practising his cooking every day. They’d furnished every room, decided on prices, on a welcome sign, on breakfast menus.

It really was _startlingly_ cute, but Dean found himself not giving even a little bit of a shit for his masculinity.

He stood with his hands in his pockets – Sam on one side, Castiel on the other – and breathed in a place he had all but built with his own two hands, and the hands of his family.

“She’s good.” He said, in a rush of breath, and Sam looked down at him.

“She’s great.” He agreed, nodding, and they were silent for a moment before Amelia spoke up.

“Are you going to name it?”

Dean’s train of thought crashed to a halt. He looked to Castiel. “I never thought of a fucking name. What do we fucking name it?” Castiel looked just as perplexed as he felt. “Is there anything in Enochian we can call it? What’s Enochian for _Dean’s Awesome Inn?”_ Sam snorted, Castiel looked pensive.

“I don’t think that’s possible to translate, and even if it were, I doubt it would sound very appealing.” He looked at the house, clearly stumped.

Sam cleared his throat. “What about the Roadhouse?” he said softly, tentative, and Dean frowned before he nodded.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

...

Two years, six months after he’d ‘bought’ the place, it was the stuff of legend. Dean would be lying if he said he wasn’t proud.

He tended bar some days, helped Castiel in the kitchen, others (although ‘help’ translated roughly to ‘distracted with his tongue’). Sam visited often, mostly house hunting with Amelia, looking for somewhere to house their incoming, more-than-likely gigantor kid.

He had good days and bad days – nightmares came less often but they still came, and some days he snapped and growled like a rabid dog, wanting nothing better than to throw himself behind the wheel and drive until he couldn’t anymore – but those days were getting less and less as time went on.  

He was at the bar, the place empty so early in the morning, cleaning up in preparation for the evening when Castiel came over and kissed him – hand on his face, catching him by surprise - just because he could.

There were so many more good days than bad days.

This – the taste of air and lightning on Castiel’s tongue, the way a rush of electricity thrummed in him down to his feet when they touched – this was the apple-pie life, pure and simple.

Putting something between his two hands, and helping it to _live;_ whether it was a house, a plant, a machine; whether it was his incoming nephew; whether it was something softer, something less tangible, that had maybe nestled under his thumbs all along.

_This_ was something worth fighting for, worth waiting for, worth having.

He caught Castiel’s mouth again, laughing, and he smiled. 


End file.
